Incentives
by SignsofSam
Summary: Humans took away his legs, demons gave them back.


**Title: **Incentives

**Summary:**Humans took away his legs, demons gave them back

**Rating:** T, for some words of the cursing variety

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, those boys are not mine (Damn you, Kripke, for getting there first)

**Author's Notes:** Just a little ditty I've been writing for like _three_ weeks. It's been stuck in my head in bits and pieces for that long. _Seriously_. So, my last story didn't get the greatest amount of reviews, so I'm hoping this one makes up for the lack of goodness in the other one. In case you didn't know, I _love_ writing angsty and screwed up Deans. Sorry. It's just one of those things...smiles...hope you enjoy, and please **review** if you have time!

**...on a side note:** The medical stuff was looked up, which means it could be (and probably is) at least a little bit false.

**Enjoy!**

"Dad, has Dean come back yet?" There was a note of worry in Sam's voice, and John looked up from the gun he was cleaning, momentarily looking out the window, at the rain that had been pouring since they hit the little town of Chance nearly six hours ago.

"Not yet, Sam; give him time and do your homework," John chided, hoping that he controlled his fear a little better than Sam. Dean had only gone to Des Moines for some gas-little hickville of a town this was, it didn't even have a gas stations-and to pick up some burgers from that diner they had seen on their way in. Now gas station, sure, but even a small town like this had a diner.

That was nearly an hour ago.

It wasn't like Dean to do this-he _knew_ the rules. Those rules were important; they kept him alive, and if Dean couldn't obey…

He sounded like a worrying mother, he thought ruefully, looking at his youngest boy, now concentrating on his book for school, occasionally glancing at the notebook he had beside him, answering a question thoughtfully before once more returning to the book. Sam was the studious one; when Dean was that age-thirteen-he had long past the point of ever wanting to achieve anything in school, and John was okay with that.

There was less a chance for him to disappoint, more a chance for him to make some kind of connection with his kids.

So when Sam didn't turn out like Dean, when Sam argued with his father over leaving school for days at a time and for not signing this form and that so that Sam could participate in _all _the school field trips, John hadn't been prepared. He didn't know how to handle Sam's intellect, and it scared him.

It scared him that Sam wanted more than the hunting.

"Dad…" Sam questioned, and John pulled himself out of his thoughts as he heard the phone ring. He got up, wearily because of cracking knees that were telling him he was getting old, and he finally ambled his way to the phone.

"Hello?" he said gruffly, wondering who the _hell_ had the number.

"Mr….Dixon?"

"Yeah," he replied, knowing that was the fake ID Dean had taken with him…Dean Dixon.

"Mr. Dixon, your son was brought to the Emergency Room and Westlake Memorial Hospital in Des Moines; his car was hit by a drunk driver."

His breath stopped at the two last words: _drunk driver_. "Is he okay?" he asked in a bare whisper, afraid to look at Sam, knowing Sam was staring hard at the phone after the previous comment. "Will he be okay?"

"He's in surgery now, Mr. Dixon. I can't tell you anymore than that."

"Can you at least give me directions?" John nearly shouted, feeling so…oh, God. _His son was hit by a drunk driver_. What if Dean died? Oh, God, what if _Dean died_ and he _wasn't there_?

"Dad?" Sam ventured to ask, his room cutting through the dead silence as John nodded his said at something the person on the phone said, but not looking at him. "Dad? What's wrong with Dean?"

John put the phone down, one tear dripping down his face. "Sam, Dean was in a car accident."

"What? Like…he ran off the road? He's been drinking? What?" Sam was desperate, his book now laying on the floor from where it had fallen from his hands. "Dad? He's going to be okay, right?"

"He was hit by a drunk driver. That's all they would tell me. Help me pack some of Dean's stuff, okay? Then we'll go…"

"Can…can we just go? We can get some stuff later. I just want to make sure he's okay. Dad…what if…"

"Sam, he'll be fine."

"You don't know that," Sam replied simply, shrugging.

--

"Mr. Dixon?" John looked up, glancing at the clock. It was one o'clock in the morning; he and Sam had been there for nearly five hours. Sam had been curled up in the chair, but the approaching footsteps had woken him up, and he was paying rapt attention to the doctor. "Mr. Dixon, I'm Dr. Palmer, if you'll come this way.

"Sam-"

"He can come, as well." John nodded, helping Sam unfold himself from that small chair. They followed the doctor to a closed door, and John knew it was Dean's. "Sam, you can go ahead and go in. He's still really groggy from surgery, and he might be asleep, but I'm sure he'd like you there." Sam nodded, momentarily glancing at John before opening door.

"Why did you need to talk to me alone?" John asked, a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Mr. Dixon, I'm not really sure how to say this…but…Dean has some swelling around his lower spinal cord-around the L1, L2, and L3 discs."

"What does that mean?"

"We won't know until the swelling goes down, but given what he's able to do now, he's partially paralyzed."

John felt himself slide down the wall, trying to remember how to breathe. Dean…_paralyzed_. Dean…_Oh, Holy Shit_.

"Mr. Dixon? Calm down; your son is going to need you to be strong right now. Nothing's certain right now. Like I said, I'll know for sure after the swelling goes down. If he is, I want you to know that it isn't the end of the world. He wouldn't be a quadrepeligic. In fact, he might regain the ability to walk after physical therapy because the injury was so low.

"Other than that, he suffered from a lacerated liver, bruised kidneys, a broken arm, broken shoulder, fractured cheekbone. He's a mess."

"And the drunk driver?"

"The drunk driver, like most accidents like this, wasn't really hurt. He's in police custody, though."

"Can I see my son?"

"Yes, sir. I'll let you tell him about the paralysis, if you feel up to it?" John nodded, uncertain about what to say. "There's a police officer who wants to talk to you; I'll come find you when he asks for you, okay? Please, just remember: it could be worse." Again John nodded, thanking the doctor as he entered the room.

Dean was so small and pale in comparison to what he normally was, but at least he was alive. He had a strong heartbeat and pulse, and his green eyes were open, trying to concentrate on Sam. "Hey, kiddo, will you go get me some coffee?" John asked Sam, giving him _the look_ until the boy nodded. John handed him some cash, ruffling his hair. When Sam was gone, John sat on the edge of the bed, taking Dean's good hand. "How are you feeling?'

"Not," Dean slurred, closing his eyes. "What happen'?'

"I'm not really sure, baby. You were hit by a drunk driver. Dean, I've…the doctor said you may be paralyzed," John whispered, and he heard Dean whimper, sucking in his breath. "Dean, he's not sure, kiddo. He said there's swelling around your spine, down at the bottom. He said that it's not as bad as we think-that you could walk again…"

"Hunt?" Dean murmured, tears falling down his eyes. John reached out, wiping them away, brushing Dean's hair from his forehead, and placing a brief kiss on the skin there.

"Don't worry about that now," John said, squeezing the boy's hand. "Whatever happens, we'll be here, okay? You won't be alone through this."

--

The house was small, but wheel-chair accessible, which was all that mattered. John and Sam moved things in, with help from Bobby and Jim, and it was ready for Dean to come home when he was released two weeks after the accident. The house was near Lawrence, and John had actually gotten a _steady_ job.

He pulled the tie off as he drove the truck toward the hospital, seething. He had been in court, for the hearing of the drunk driver, who had pleaded for leniency for the simple fact that he was a father with two kids. John had been allowed to speak, where he reminded the judge that that father had paralyzed his _seventeen_-year-old son, potentially for life, because he made the decision to drive home instead of calling his wife or a cab.

Bail had been set at 25,000 dollars. John felt more accomplished then than after any hunt.

The man had bawled, saying he didn't mean to drive after drinking, and John had cruelly told him that he should've been thinking.

At the hospital, Sam helped Dean into his jacket, watching as his brother tried to get comfortable in the wheelchair. His face was still marred with bruises and cuts, but it looked much better than when Sam had first seen his brother. "You know we'll get you walking, right?" he said, and Dean laughed, shaking his head.

"Sam, face the facts: I'm never gonna walk again. I'm never gonna hunt, gonna run, gonna drive that damn Impala! I'm never gonna be able to do anything but wheel around in this damn thing!" Dean shouted, tears running down his face. "I'm never gonna be able to do anything but hate myself and hate the man that did this to me."

"How can you say that? You heard Dr. Palmer-you can walk again if you try! Don't be a fool and don't be a coward! I know it's going to hurt, and you're going to get mad and frustrated, but you have everything you need to help you do this! Don't say stuff like you're never going to do anything but hate yourself-because the Dean I know would be doing everything in his power to prove otherwise!"

"I'm tired, Sam. Please…just drop it for now." He took a slow breath out, fingering his pendent. It was what gave him strength; the fact that Sam had given it to him, because he trusted Dean and believed in Dean then, and he did now.

"Okay. Can you wait to go home? You should see the place-it's awesome. I can't believe Dad's actually settling down. The house is nice-one floor; we have our own bedrooms, a nice, big bathroom-it'll be good while you recover."

"Sam, seriously; please don't give up your hopes. I just want to make sure you aren't disappointed…"

"I couldn't ever be disappointed in you, Dean. You'll always be my hero." Sam grinned, and Dean couldn't help but feel a little brighter, a little happier.

Have a little hope.

--

A human took away Dean's legs, and, one year, twelve days, twenty-two hours and nineteen minutes later, a demon gave them back.

It was a dark night, and John was out on a hunt with Bobby. Since Dean's accident, John had stayed close to home, and had finally, after much convincing from his kids, agreed to go on a hunt in Kansas. It gave the boys some much needed alone-time, including wheelchair racing (in which Dean totally kicked Sam's ass, but that might have been for the fact that he had been in a wheelchair for over a year) and the manliest man-movies possible (as opposed to the chick flick and those-such-moments that Dean despised).

"Hey, are you going to bed?" Sam asked his brother, watching Dean move from the couch to the wheelchair. He still went to therapy, but he hadn't been able to walk more than a few shaky steps, and even those nearly killed him with the pain.

It was hard to remember that Dean was _only_ eighteen; still a senior in high school. Before the accident, he hadn't given a shit about school, now, it was all he had to define himself. He wasn't the hunter anymore; he wasn't the player, the cocky guy sure he was going to get all the girls; he was Dean Winchester, the crippled freak.

"Yeah. I'll see you in the morning?" Dean answered, glancing back as he moved down the hall, reaching out to open the door. His room was pretty bare, a desk, a bed, a dresser. His wheelchair limited what he could reach, so he never really bought new things.

He had had a bath earlier (he hated baths, but they were _much_ simpler than trying to worry with that showerhead nonsense his father had installed), so he simply rolled toward the bed, reaching out to plant his hands on the spread, using his upper-body strength to pull himself out of the chair to the bed. His legs gave little help, though some days of the week they provided a little support for his weight; tonight was definitely not one of those nights.

His hand instinctively reached under the pillow, feeling the knife so skillfully hidden there, before reaching inside the top drawer of his bedside table, his gun with both regular and salt bullets rolling around in it, next to a math book. Even if he couldn't actively participate, he was still a hunter at heart.

In the living room, Sam watched the hall his brother had gone down, smiling sadly after him. He was so happy he hadn't lost his brother a year ago, but he did lose a part of him. Dean wasn't so cocky any more; he wasn't as carefree, as easy to give and so willing to trust; he was harder, just.._different_. He wasn't _Dean_, more like a reincarnation of their dad, and Sam hated it. He wanted to shove Dean and remind him that just because he lost the ability to walk didn't mean he lost himself. It didn't mean he was a different, more pathetic Dean; in fact, to Sam it meant that he was better, stronger….he was great.

He felt cool air whip around him, and he mentally checked all the windows, satisfied that they were all locked and salted. He had made sure to do that after his father left, without telling or consulting Dean. It was best not to antagonize the situation, to remind him and make him start pitying himself again; Dean hated to be reminded of what he couldn't do.

Sam cleared the popcorn bowls off the coffee table, turning off the tv as he made his way to the kitchen, frowning when he saw the hole in the kitchen window. He dropped the bowl into the sink, instantly heading for the coffee table again, where a gun with salt shells was hidden. He let out a gasp as he was tripped up, his face slamming into the hardwood floor. He groaned as he was turned over, a hand-like limb gripping his neck tightly, whispered words coming out of cracked lips from above him.

"Dean!" he called, kicking, punching, scrambling for a gun, a bowl…something to help him out. "DEAN!"

_"There is no hope, Winchester. He's too weak,"_ the demon whispered into his ear, sadistic, turning it's attention back to whispering ancient words above Sam. He struggled, he fought, but he felt his body growing weak with every word drawn from the thing, every word taking more from _him_.

_BAM!_ One single shot, and the demon writhed in pain, away from Sam. He looked over as he tried to catch his breath, staring wearily at Dean, standing shakily, heavily leaning against the wall, the gun firmly in his other hand. He looked weak, fatigue, but his face mirrored none of that; it was steady and strong, as usual. "Get away from my brother, you sonuva-"

He didn't get to finish his words as the demon approached, one swift smack sending the oldest brother flying down the hall, legs smacking into the wheelchair with a resounding _smack_ as his body landed on the ground, too battered and too bruised to put up a fight as the demon came to him, turning him onto his back, making him scream in pain. It laughed, limb again pressing on the throat, cutting off Dean's air.

_"One Winchester is as sweet as the rest,"_ the demon shared, an evil smirk on it's lips as the words began again. Dean gripped the arm, digging his meager nails in, _ripping_. It howled in pain, but didn't let go.

"Dean!" Sam yelled for a third time, for a much different reason, and another shot was fired, but Sam's bad aim managed to crack the wall near the demon's head. Dean could see that he was aiming again, but he shook his head.

"_Just let me go, Sammy. Tell Dad I sacrificed myself for you and that I'm no longer a burden for him" _Dean mouthed, and tears ran down Sam's eyes as he recognized each word. He shook his head-Hell no, his brother wasn't going anywhere!-and took aim again.

The front door burst open, and John Winchester yelled "Sam, down!" giving his youngest just enough time to duck before firing round after round after round, the creature screeching in pain before disappearing in a cloud of black smoke.

John's gun clattered to the ground, and he rushed to his oldest, expecting Bobby to follow behind him and get Sam. "Dean? Dean, you still with me?" he asked, fingers sliding down Dean's neck, trying frantically to find a pulse. "Deano-"

The boy coughed, and John sighed. "Breathe easy, Dean; slow and easy," he whispered, glancing up to Bobby, who had Sam at the table, covering the window seal with salt. "Deano, where's your wheelchair?"

Dean weakly pointed to the metal object sitting in the hallway a couple feet in front of him. "All right, I'm gonna go get it-" Dean shook his head, and John eyed him cautiously. "But, Dean-"

"No, Dad. Watch. Help me up." His breath was out, his voice sounded funky, but with his father overbearing help, he managed to stand, giving his father a grin as he took a shaky step, then another.

"Well, I'll be damned," John murmured, still going to retrieve the wheelchair, feeling that Dean probably wasn't all that steady on newly-discovered, still-functioning legs.

--

Dean grinned at his father as he came toward him, hands gripping the crutches tightly. John smiled back, awfully proud, hard-pressed to contain that pride, and opened the door to the truck for his son. "What did the therapist say?"

"They're doing well-a few more weeks and I'll be able to get around with nothing but my two legs underneath me. He said I'll be running again. _Running_. Which means I can go back to hunting."

"Dean, let's…let's hold off on that until you're completely ready. Why now, do you think? You were in that car wreck over a year ago…so why now?" John asked curiously as the truck pulled out of the parking lot, and Dean shrugged, looking at Sam, sound asleep, head on his brother's arm.

"I guess I just didn't have the proper incentives until now," he answered with a smug grin.

And all was right in the Winchester world for at least another night.

**-fini-**


End file.
